By becoming this photograph to be sure you were aware of portraying the world, one by one each one of us, our life-support machines behind computers now, then ... better not name them, cat cat. The cold air of death blowing on each of our foolishness and / or greatness, that no one will applaud for more sad, but will not be dead if applauded, if our joy is nothing that sweeps dust slap, or that wind I said quietly in my dreams: The wind sweeps the house where my love dies ... where my love was true and dying and going and I was dreaming, and over the years understand that it was true, I sleep dreaming of what was happening, but I never wake a dream fulfilled.
The computer and cable, as the breathing machine and its lead, this time in the face and not the finger that makes you click a photo. I have to tell
I wanted these words to tell you, but I can not, yourself, did you do this yourself "I can not" having something so silly and tragic as this picture. And I know that deep down you'd wanted to I could, I wish I could. For there is something that tells us who is our measure, especially if we speak of poetry, every one knows. You know that's not it, I know. Poetry is true every moment of the day and every moment of the day is not true but a tragedy, a tragedy that is written in your own history or if it does not hurt others out of sight, but what if they look? And poetry, really, which is written with a capital P Poesis, could be so blind as Homer (the poet who had nothing, but rather of a war correspondent and the block is related) that would be!, WOULD NOT SEE WHAT OTHERS.
this I see in your photo.
And sing me a song of tenderness unprecedented 
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